


Sandglass

by AnxietyGrrl



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 06:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11845974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnxietyGrrl/pseuds/AnxietyGrrl
Summary: After "Eastwatch", Daenerys waits (not patiently), Tyrion watches. Definitely Jon/Daenerys, but from Tyrion's point of view. Jon is not actually in this, but he's present nonetheless. No spoilers.





	Sandglass

**Author's Note:**

> Always fun to write a fic that has a shelf life of one day! This is my first venture into writing GoT/ASoIaF, so feedback is very appreciated.

The Queen was restless.

With the war at a stalemate, and no news from the North, she cast about for a useful purpose. But supply chains and troop exercises did not hold her attention for long, and when she set her eye to managing the household business of the castle, she only grew irritated with the trivialities.

He did not blame her. Meereen was a snakepit, but at least it was _busy._  
  
Her disquiet grew ever more apparent as the days and weeks passed. Lord Varys remarked as much to him one morning at table. Tyrion would have thought it a passing observation, but the Master of Whispers said nothing in passing.

“No good can come of it,” he agreed, and they dropped the matter.  
  
She spent hours mounted upon Drogon, flying swooping circles around the island. Her agitation had seemed to rub off on the dragon, and Tyrion would often hear him roaring in the night. "What if there is ill weather?” he asked Varys as they emptied their cups in the throne room. “What if lightning strikes the beast and she tumbles into the sea? Who will be our just and benevolent ruler then?"  
  
Varys merely hummed.  
  
"Good gods, man. Do you have a _back-up_?"  
  
"Lord Tyrion," he said, with wide-eyed affront, "did you not hear my declaration to Queen Daenerys when we first arrived on this black rock?"  
  
"I did indeed." Tyrion reclined against the stair. "Anyone I know?" 

Varys _tsk_ ed and reached for the flagon.

 

More and more he found her on the cliffs, or on the beach, her bloodriders lingering at a distance on her orders, looking as if they were nervous she might try to swim away--and there was little less reassuring than a nervous Dothraki. Once, he followed her footprints to the mouth of the dragonglass cavern. He had been some small distance into the mine, but the light of her torch glimmered somewhere beyond the vast main chamber, and he went toward it cautiously, hoping a shard of obsidian would not fall on his head.

“Your Grace?” he called.

“Here.” Her reply was flat, distracted.

He soon found her. “Your guards said you've been in here for quite some--”

“Look.” She grasped his arm, and lifted the torch to the cave wall.

“Oh.”

She led him forward, and placed her hand upon the stone. “I’ve been trying to puzzle them out. See? This,” she said, the most satisfaction he’d seen on her face in some time, “is the symbol for the Children of the Forest. And this--” She moved her hand. “This is Man.”

He nodded. “Yes, I believe I see. Very good, Your Highness.” He smiled at her. “For a girl with no formal education. We shan’t need a maester.”

She ignored his jest. “I feel all of time in here, Tyrion.” She scanned the dome of stone constellations around and above them, and he himself felt overwhelmed. “How long it is.” She moved the torch, and he sucked in a cold breath as he saw the figures that looked like men, but were not men at all. She turned to face him, bathed in firelight. “And how short.”

 

Meetings of the small council--and it seemed quite small now, indeed--grew less productive as more time passed without any apparent progress in their endeavors. A status report as to the various regions of Westeros, though the Queen was gratified to learn that reinforcements of food had reached the Unsullied garrison at Casterly Rock, turned tense when talk turned to the North.

“Is there news, then?”

A silent second later, Varys replied, “No, Your Majesty.”

“Of course not.” He could feel the blunt edge of her disdain. “What good are your little birds, then?”

“We shall know when our party has reached Eastwatch. Until then, perhaps we could send a raven to Lady Stark--”

“What use is this?” She stood, bristling with frustration. “I do not wish to discuss the North until there is _news_ from the North.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion started, a lump rising in his throat, “It might be wise to consider an… alternate strategy--a contingency, if you will, that’s all--in the event that our plans do not result… as planned.” She leaned forward, her right hand gripping the coast of Dorne, withering him with her glare.

“It was _your. Plan._ ” She strode past them, her cape swinging. “You are adjourned.” The carved direwolf figure that she’d been holding, unnoticed, in her left hand, landed with an echoing _thock_ in the Land of Always Winter, near his head.

He stared into its mute, dour snarl and muttered, “ _I know it was my plan._ ”

 

When he could stand it no more, he sought expert counsel.  
  
"I would not ask you to break the Queen's confidence, Missandei."  
  
"I would not if you did."  
  
"Of course. It's just that I have been... I am...concerned. She is worried for Ser Jorah, I know--"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But... It seems more. Than that."  
  
"Lord Tyrion," Missandei began, pausing to plan her words. "Daenerys Targaryen has known great loss. She has survived many terrible things. But...she has never loved a _good_ man. I fear for her."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Does this address your concerns?"  
  
"It does. Thank you, Missandei."  
  
"The Queen has not spoken of this matter with me," she clarified. "I speak only from observation."

"Your eyes are keen, my lady. Or else we have seen the same mirage."

 

He found Daenerys this time at the edge of the world--past the far end of Aegon’s table, silhouetted against the sky, wearing a path in the stone.  
  
He stood at a respectful distance, and cleared his throat. "On the great merchant houses of Lannisport, there is a curious feature. This ledge brings it to mind. Below the roof, there is usually a narrow balcony, always facing the sea. It’s said that their purpose was for the ladies of the households to watch for returning ships. They call them--” He stopped. _Oh, seven hells._ He’d sought an opening gambit for the conversation, and tripped on his own cleverness.

“Well? What are they called?”

“They’re called…” He saw her raised brows and ploughed on, as matter-of-fact as he could. “They’re called widows’ walks, actually.”  
  
"I am not a widow, my Lord," she said, with a snap of her jaw that reminded him of one of her children warning another off its perch. "Well. I am, but..." She frowned as if she tasted something sour. "Why do you raise this subject?"  
  
He shrugged innocently. "I was merely discussing architecture. I thought to distract you."  
  
"In this instance, Lord Tyrion, you are a poor liar." She looked to the sea, and drew her cloak close against the wind. "I'm not a fool."  
  
It was quiet enough he could have pretended not to hear. "Far from it, Your Grace."  
  
"I know my own heart. I am... dismayed to find others may know it, too."  
  
"If so, their numbers are few."  
  
"Too few, perhaps." The soft words were carried out over the waves and broke like seaspray. Hope and regret warred on her face.  
  
"For now." He made an effort at cheerfulness. "But tomorrow has not failed to come yet! Where there is life, there is... et cetera..." 

“A rousing speech indeed.” He welcomed her wry smile. If he could not aid her at present, at least he could amuse her. But she soon began to pace again. “I am not one to watch and wait. I must _do._ ”

“I know. You have that in common, at least.”

“Please, stop. It isn’t--”

“Isn't what? Possible? My Queen. This, this whatever-it-is to which we are still so obliquely referring for some reason I cannot…” He stopped, reining in his exasperation. “Surely you have achieved more impossible things than this.” She looked over her shoulder and pinned him with her glance. “I believe I heard that somewhere.”

She shook her head. “I would say that smugness does not become you, but you know too well that it does.”

He put a hand to his chest. _I?_ _Smug?_

“I need to rest,” she said. “To think. I need to stop thinking.” The wind picked up, and she spread her arms. Drogon and Rhaegal soared overhead. “I need to _fly_.” She turned back to the sea, looking not West now, but North, always North. “I need to get off this _bloody_ island.” She walked back into the dragon’s mouth of the war room. “It’s too full of shadows.”

 

“The fool had better live,” said Tyrion at supper.

“Hmm,” replied Varys, but it was an assenting sort of hum. “For the sake of the realm, or the sake of the Queen?”

“For _my_ sake. It was my plan.”

Varys raised his cup. “I wish you good fortune in the--”

“Oh, shut up.” He lifted his own goblet. “To the Queen.” Then, after a moment, “And the King.” A second more, and he grabbed the flagon and filled his drink to the brim. “And to every bloody one of us.”

 

That night, there was a storm, and the next day was clear and cold, with a sweet, sharp smell in the air. He was out on the cliffs, watching Daenerys land from her morning ride. She nodded to him, and approached. As Drogon settled into sleep on his promontory, birds began to take off from the rocks again. Tyrion watched them for a while--petrels, he thought--until among them he saw a black speck. It circled in a drunken fashion, and he could not tell whether it fell or landed upon Dragonstone’s ravenry tower.

The Queen’s silver hair streamed behind her as she flew.


End file.
